


After Borrasca

by BuffyAndBetty



Category: Borrasca (Podcast)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psych Ward, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, trauma aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25360537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuffyAndBetty/pseuds/BuffyAndBetty
Summary: I was really surprised by the ending of Borrasca. And, tbh, I was pretty traumatized. Like, waking up in the middle of the night traumatized. I needed some closure, so I wanted to flesh out Kimber’s story instead of waiting for a season 2 to do that…if it does that. I wanted to bring her some healing — to get her to the point where she'd be able to find Sam and engage with him.Major Trigger Warnings for rape and sexual assault. I'm not going to get graphic, but it needs to be dealt with.Spoilers for all of season 1 of Borrasca.
Kudos: 1





	1. She Wasn't Ready

Kimber thrashed as rough hands grabbed her arms and strapped them down. “No!” she screamed as she kicked out, landing a kick to someone’s chest as finally, her legs were pinned down as well. She pulled against her restraints, shrieking, as she felt the needle enter her arm. “No, no, no,” she cried, unable to keep herself from losing consciousness.

When she woke, she noticed the light streaming through the windows. She scrambled back on the bed, expecting to still be tied down, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Kylie,” a woman’s voice said. “You’re safe. You had an incident and we had to medically restrain you, but you’re in the Los Angeles Hospital’s Psych Ward and you’re safe.”

Kimber shook, weeping into her knees. 

“Do you remember what happened?” the woman asked. “Do you remember the incident?”

Kimber hugged her legs in tighter. She didn’t want to remember anything. Remembering was the fucking problem.

“The doctor will be here shortly to check in on you. You’re safe. OK? You’re safe.” Kimber heard the nurse leave.

After a few moments, she slowly lifted her head, taking in her surroundings. She was in a room with light blue walls and a white tile floor. Her hospital bed was in a semi reclined position and the no-fall railings were up. She could see the restraints hanging limply to the side. She fucking hated those things. Kimber dug her nails into her knees, but her tension continued to build until she flung her pillows and sheets off the bed in a quiet rage. She knew the howls and screams she wanted to release would just get her restrained again.

She was standing now, doubled over, hands on knees and breathing heavily. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she repeated in her head, trying to calm herself. She knelt on the floor and began gathering her pillow and linens, letting the hardness of the floor dig into her bony knees. She got everything back on the bed and straightened it all out. Her breathing slowed and she paced around the room until the doctor came in.

“Hi, Kylie,” Dr. Stevens said brightly. “How are you feeling?”

Kimber stopped pacing and glared up at him. “Great,” she smiled sarcastically. “You know how much I fucking love being TIED DOWN.” She didn’t mean to yell, but it was hard to control her rage.

Dr. Steven’s didn’t react. “Why don’t you sit?” he asked, gesturing to the chair in the corner of the room. 

“I prefer to stand, if that’s okay,” Kimber responded through gritted teeth.

“Of course it’s okay,” Dr. Stevens replied. “You get to decide what you do with your body.”

Kimber scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

The doctor gave her a moment before asking, “Can you tell me about what happened last night? About what precipitated the restraint?”

Kimber turned away from the doctor, clenching her fists. She didn’t want to think about last night. She didn’t want to think about the past at all. Her breathing began to quicken.

“I know it’s hard for you to talk,” Dr. Stevens said. “I know you think that you’re protecting yourself by _not_ thinking about the things you’ve gone through. But it’s not working and I think you can see that.” Kimber chewed the corner of her mouth. “You have to talk about what happened to you eventually, or you’re going to keep flying into your rages and you’re going to get hurt…or hurt someone else.” Kimber blinked back tears. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You can talk to me. You’re safe here.”

Part of Kimber knew that the doctor was right; that she couldn’t keep going the way she was going. But she also didn’t feel ready to give in. She was afraid that if she let her armor slip, she would have nothing… _be_ nothing.

Dr. Stevens interrupted her thoughts. “Okay, Kylie,” he said, using the name she’d gave them when she’d been locked up. “I’m going to finish my rounds. You have an appointment with Ms. Brennan this afternoon and then group. I hope you’ll consider opening up.”

As the doctor left, Kimber released her fists. She ran her hands up and down her arms, suddenly feeling cold. She curled up in the chair and counted the holes in the ceiling tiles until lunch.

After lunch, Kimber was walked to Ms. Brennan’s office. Her office was cheery, in a sterile, clinical way, with posters on the walls showing beautiful mountain ranges and waterfalls and a couple of beanbag chairs in the corner. There were stuffed animals and art supplies and books lining the shelves. Kimber sat in a chair facing the desk. Ms. Brennan shut the door and then sat across from her.

“Hey, Kylie,” she said warmly. “I heard you had a rough night.”

One thing Kimber liked about Ms. Brennan was that she knew how to cut to the chase. “You could say that,” Kimber said, slouching down.

“I know you hate being restrained—I’m so sorry that happened. Can you tell me how you got there?”

“No,” Kimber pouted, angry at the insinuation that it was her fault.

Ms. Brennan nodded. “The report says that you attacked another patient.”

Kimber shrugged, studying her nails.

“Can you tell me why you attacked him?”

“I didn’t ‘attack’ him. I was defending myself,” Kimber grumbled. 

“You were defending yourself?” she always repeated shit. Must be therapeutic. “Why did you feel you needed to defend yourself?”

Kimber took a deep breath. “Because he fucking touched me.”

“Where did he touch you?”

“I was at the table doing a jigsaw puzzle and he grabbed my shoulder.”

“Can you show me how he grabbed your shoulder?”

Kimber looked flabbergasted. “Like this,” she said, tapping her shoulder with her fingers.

“So, he tapped you?”

“Yeah.”

“You said he grabbed you.”

Kimber rolled her eyes. “What’s the fucking difference?” she asked.

“Well, a grab is more aggressive,” Ms. Brennan stated.

“A tap can be aggressive,” Kimber argued.

“Sure, I guess it can be.” Ms. Brennan paused. “Was this tap aggressive?”

Kimber felt tears spring up in her eyes. She felt ridiculous. “I guess not,” she replied.

“So what was it that set you off?”

Kimber exhaled loudly. “I guess I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Okay, so you felt this tap and it surprised you. Then what happened.”

“I guess I grabbed his hand and bit him on the arm?”

“Are you asking me?”

“No,” Kimber admitted. “I bit him.”

“You did. And then what happened.”

“Then I got cornered by the staff and I fought back. But I lost.”

“What would winning have looked like?”

Kimber looked up. “I have no idea.”

“Okay, so you fought the staff. Do you remember what was going through your head at that point?” Kimber shook her head. “Were you thinking about Suzie, the nurse you punched in the face? Or about Justin, the orderly you kicked in the chest?” Kimber shook her head again. “Did you even see them?”

Kimber paused. “Not really,” she finally answered. When she tried to remember last night, instead she got glimpses of Deputy Griggs throwing the desk out of the way and grabbing her. Of Deputy Ramirez laughing after he punched her in the face. Of the smell of James Preston’s cologne as he thrust himself into her. When she tried to remember last night, all she could see was that she had to fight. She had to fight and she had to win.

“Kylie,” Ms. Brennan said kindly. “I don’t know what’s happened in your life to get you here. But I _want_ to know. I want to help you deal with your trauma so that you can handle your rage and your anger. So that you can leave the hospital and live some sort of a normal life.” She paused. “Do you want that?”

Kimber tried to formulate a response, but she couldn’t articulate what she was thinking. Not yet. She couldn’t tell Ms. Brennan that she didn’t deserve a normal life. That she deserved everything she got: all the pain, fear, and anguish.

Ms. Brennan stood up. “It’s time for group. I’ll walk you down.”

Where Ms. Brennan’s room was warm, the group therapy room was bleak. It was a large space with a circle of plastic chairs in the middle. Suzanne, the trauma group leader, was already seated along with 4 other women. 

“Welcome, Kylie!” Suzanne beamed. “Have a seat.”

For the next hour, Kimber listened as the women around her shared. One told of her college boyfriend holding her down and his roommate shoved his cock into her mouth. Another told about her pimp beating her after a John wouldn’t pay. A third cried as she recounted being choked by a stranger in her own bed.

During a lull, Suzanne turned to Kimber. “Kylie, would you like to share today?”

Kimber had been locked in the psych ward for two weeks, but she still hadn’t shared. She shook her head and looked at her feet. She wasn’t ready.


	2. She Might Never Feel Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimber fights

Two weeks later, Kimber was still going through the motions. Her court-mandated stay was 90 days and she was about a third of the way through. If she could just make it another couple of months, she would be released and could disappear again.

“Kylie,” Ms. Brennan said. “Can you tell me about the night you were arrested?”

Kimber rolled her eyes. They’d been through this. She had nothing new to add. Ms. Brennan was looking at her, open and warm. Kimber rolled her eyes again and began. “I was at a bar. I’d had a few shots of whiskey and I went out to smoke a cigarette.” Her hands shook a bit. “Some guy tried to pull me into the alley and I burned him with my cigarette. He let go and I ran.”

“Then what happened.”

“I ran into some cops and they tried to grab me, so I hit them.”

“You hit them?”

“I scratched one of them in the face and I elbowed the other one in the nose.”

Ms. Brennan nodded. “Do you remember doing that?”

“Not really,” Kimber admitted. “I heard it at my court date.”

“Okay, so you assaulted the officers—“

“They assaulted me first!” Kimber interrupted.

“They were trying to help you.”

“Yeah right…”

“Okay, you fought back but you don’t remember it. Were you drunk?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think you don’t remember?”

“I don’t know,” Kimber shifted in her seat, her breath speeding up and her face turning red. “I get into these rages and I can’t remember them. It’s like I black out or something.”

“So when you think back to that night with those officers, what do you remember?”

“I remember everything.” Kimber said quietly. “I remember everything they fucking did to me. I may have been drugged, but I remember it all.” Ms. Brennan remained quiet as Kimber wept. She couldn’t stop the memories now that came flooding back: the deputies cornering her in her dad’s office, not being able to fight them off; her dad screaming her name as she watched them feed him into the Shiny Gentleman; the men tying her to that godforsaken bed and raping her, over and over, until she’d almost lost hope; Killian Cleary pinning Kyle to the ground and screaming into his face; Kyle, crying as he was pulled back up the mountain and away from her hiding place. And it was her fault. Every last bit of it was her fault.

“Kylie,” Ms. Brennan finally said. “Who are ‘they?’ What did ‘they’ do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kimber cried. “It doesn’t fucking matter!”

“I think it does matter. I think you matter.”

Kimber sobbed. “No! No! No! No! No!” she was slamming down on the arm rests of her chair. “I deserved it! It was my fault!”

“Kylie,” Ms. Brennan walked around the desk to kneel next to Kimber’s chair. She reached toward Kimber’s hands, but thought better of it, letting her hands hover over her. She tried to look Kimber in the eye, but Kimber looked away. “Whatever happened to you wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve it. And you’re not a bad person because of it.” She released a sigh. “You’re a survivor. You survived something horrible and that comes with its own baggage.”

Kimber let out a hollow laugh. “Baggage?” 

“Yes, for lack of a better word, ‘baggage.’ The rage, the hopelessness, the fear…” Kimber’s eyes shot up. “It’s all because of what happened to you. You can’t keep holding onto it. You have to let it go… to metaphorically drop those bags before they drown you.”

“How?” Kimber asked. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I think it would help if you told me what happened,” Ms. Brennan said. “I think talking about it would help you release some of that guilt and anger.”

“I’m not ready.”

“You might never feel ready,” Ms. Brennan said. “But you might have to do it anyway.”

Kimber didn’t sleep that night. She sat on her bed, knees to her chest, playing with the cuffs of her pants. Or she pulled into the fetal position and chewed her cuticles. Or she lay on her stomach with her head under her pillow. As long as she didn’t leave her bed, the night nurse didn’t care if she was awake or not. She could probably slit her own throat and the nurse would be fine with it—as long as she did it in bed. 

On nights that she thought the dreams would come, which was most nights, Kimber kept herself awake. That day, talking to Ms. Brennan, with all those thoughts swimming around in her head, she knew she would dream. So she stayed awake and tried to quiet her brain. She counted forwards, backwards, by 3s, by 7s. She named characters in her favorite shows, alphabetically, then by age. She quietly sang children’s songs and pop songs and showtunes and classic rock. She did anything she could to keep her mind occupied—to _not_ think of Borrasca.

But it was a losing battle. _Alison…Aria…Ashley…Byron…Caleb…_ and her eyes would start to close as she tried to remember if there were any D-names in _Pretty Little Liars_ and that’s when the images would tear into her head. Kyle, tucking her into a large, hollow tree trunk as he grabbed a rock. Kyle, creeping up behind Cleary. Kyle, trying to raise that rock to hit him in the head as Cleary turned around, but his arm couldn’t get up high enough, and he cried out in pain. Cleary, tackling Kyle to the ground, hitting him again and again until Kyle was too weak to fight back. Kyle, crying, as Cleary demanded to know where she was—crying, as Cleary dragged him back up the mountain, toward slavery and abuse and death. 

And Kimber was crying now—crying for the boy she’d loved and lost, her own brother (if her mom’s note was right) and her best friend and soul mate. Kimber retched. It was all too much. It was all too much. _Aria,_ she thought. _Ashley…Byron…_


	3. But She Might Have to Do It Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimber begins to share her story

The next day, there was a new woman in her trauma group—another redhead, closer to Kimber’s age than the other women. For the most part, the women’s wounds were on the inside…invisible. But this woman had a black eye and a fat lip. This woman’s trauma was fresh and visible for all to see. This woman looked like Kimber felt—beaten, broken, chewed up and spat out.

She tuned in to catch the end of Indigo’s story—one she’d told before about a John who “got rough” with her and thrust his fist into her as she cried.

“Thank you for sharing,” Suzanne said. “I know how difficult it is to relive that trauma,” she glanced at the new girl. “But it’s how you heal.”

Kimber scoffed.

“Kylie? Do you have something to add?”

“It’s how you heal? Indigo’s going to be released and be back on the streets. She’s going to be a fucking target—again—“

“You don’t know that,” Suzanne interjected. “There’s transitional housing and—“

“Transitional housing?” Kimber laughed. “How do you transition out of being a fucking whore?”

Indigo stormed across the circle and Kimber leapt out of her chair, jumping behind it for protection. Suzanne positioned herself between them and indicated to the approaching orderlies to hold off. 

“You think you’re fucking better than me, bitch?” Indigo shouted. “You sit here all high and mighty and you think you’re superior? Well, fuck you! For all we know, you’re a fucking whore too!”

“I’m worse than a whore!” Kimber exclaimed. “And there’s no saving me either. I’ll never be anything but a used up piece of trash.”

Indigo rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said and returned to her chair. “You’re not worth it.”

Kimber was still wide-eyed and wild. She looked at Suzanne, whose hands were raised in front of her as Kimber white-knuckled her chair. ‘Fuck it,’ she thought and she hurled the chair across the room with a scream. She felt her fist make contact with someone’s face as she was grabbed from the sides and pulled into a restraint. She was vaguely aware that Suzanne was ushering the others from the room as she heard a Code called over the loud speaker. She was fully aware of feeling helpless as she was pinned down, fighting against the restraint and failing. She clearly felt the needle pressed into her arm and she howled with rage. And then it was black.

When she woke up she wasn’t in her bed. “Kylie,” she heard the familiar voice of Ms. Brennan. “You’re safe. You’re in the LA Hospital Psych Ward. We had to medically restrain you.”

“Where am I?” Kimber croaked.

“You’re in a padded cell,” Ms. Brennan answered. “The doctor-on-call thought it would be the safest option.” Kimber looked around, taking in the white floor, the white walls, the lack of furniture. Ms. Brennan continued. “You’ll be here overnight for observation. Tomorrow we’ll revisit the arrangement with Dr. Stevens.

“Kylie,” Ms. Brennan sounded apologetic. “This is for your own safety.” She took a deep breath. “You have to stop fighting. Fighting has kept you safe in the past, but now it’s hurting you. You have to stop.” She knocked on the door and an orderly opened it for her. She turned back. “It’s time to stop fighting. It’s time to let go.”

Kimber screamed as the door closed behind Ms. Brennan, leaving her alone in the padded cell. She paced. She balled her hands into fists and punched the walls. She raged until she had nothing left. And then she cried. She cried for Kyle, whose fate she’d learned in an internet cafe miles from home. She cried for her dad. Her mom. She cried for those women who were left behind and she cried for herself. She cried so hard for so long that she thought she’d never stop. 

But she did. Eventually, she stopped crying. And when Dr. Stevens came to check on her the next day, she felt like a hollowed out husk. She had nothing left.

Little by little, Kimber began to share her story. She was afraid to give details. Afraid she’d be found and taken back to Borrasca. She told the women in group she’d been kidnapped, raped. It seemed like they’d all been raped at least once. 

“It’s just the tax for becoming a woman,” Indigo said, bitterly, when she told about the first time she was raped when she was a freshman in high school. 

“I know it feels that way,” Suzanne smiled, sadly. “And for women who end up incarcerated—in prison or in a mental hospital—many have been sexually assaulted.

“But it’s not a tax or a toll—it’s a trauma.”

“Yeah,” Ashley, the newer red-head in the group, spoke up. “Men want us to be sexy, but then they punish us for it.” She indicated her healing black eye.

“For me,” Kimber spoke up, “I don’t even think it was about sex. I wasn’t even a human to them. I was just a body to be used however they wanted. All women were.”

“And that _dehumanization_ — how did that make you feel?”

“Seriously, Suzanne?”

“Seriously, Kylie.”

“It felt bad.” Suzanne’s eyebrow went up, clearly wanting more elaboration. Kimber sighed. “I wanted to die.” She paused. “I still want to die, sometimes.

“I feel disgusting. I feel like there’s something wrong with me—something that let those men do that to me. Something they saw in me that made it okay to hurt me.”

Indigo interrupted. “I know exactly how you feel. I know I’m a prostitute. I know I sell my body to men and maybe that means I deserve what I get. But I’m still a fucking person, y’know?”

“You don’t deserve to be hurt,” Suzanne countered.

“I’ve sold myself,” Kimber admitted. “When I couldn’t pay my rent. I sold myself at the club I dance at. Twenty bucks for a handjob. Fifty for a blowjob. A hundred to fuck me.” She made eye contact with Indigo. “When I came at you for being a whore, I was talking about myself.”

“We do what we have to do,” Ashley said. “We survive how we have to survive.”

Kimber nodded. “We survive how we have to survive,” she repeated with tears in her eyes. “…what we have to do to survive….”


	4. Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimber finally starts to deal with her shit and heal. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for mentions of rape (obv) and mentions of self-harm and suicidal ideation.

With six weeks left in her court-mandated stay, Kimber talked. She talked in group to other survivors and she talked in therapy to Ms. Brennan. Little by little, Kimber began to feel more like herself. Her nightmares and flashbacks didn’t stop, but they were less frequent. If she was startled or felt threatened, she didn’t automatically go into a blinding rage. Instead, she employed breathing exercises that Ms. Brennan taught her or she walked away.

Kimber was healing … and it made her feel guilty.

One day, in group, Kimber talked about Kyle. She described the goofy boy she loved, who loved her back wholly and without reserve. Without giving away details about what really happened, she told them that Kyle (she called him Kevin) saved her life and now he was brain dead — that he would never again be the funny, dorky stoner she remembered. Even though she was healing, he never would.

Indigo spoke up. “I can’t imagine how that feels,” she said. “I’ve never had anyone love me like that.” Tears sprang to Kimber’s eyes. “But, if everything you told us about him is true, he’d want you to live your life. He’d want you to get better.”

“I know that,” Kimber said, shaking her head, “but I can’t stop feeling guilty. Why do I get to live and he doesn’t?”

“Sometimes shit just doesn’t make sense,” Ashley replied, sitting back in her plastic chair. “I mean, it’s not like good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. It’s just shitty.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Kimber agreed, but she looked at her hands like she couldn’t quite grasp what she needed to grasp.

“It’s shame,” Suzanne offered. “That feeling you’re having. It’s normal and it’s called shame.” Kimber raised an eyebrow. “Shame is like guilt, but bigger — it _causes_ guilt. It’s that feeling that makes you think you’re bad or dirty or just wrong.” She took a breath and looked around the circle. “Let’s try an exercise. I want you all to close your eyes.” After a few groans and eye rolls everyone complied. “Take a few minutes to think about something that makes you feel shame and then try to _feel_ it in your body.” 

Kimber closed her eyes and she thought about Kyle. She thought about how she stayed hidden as he was dragged away. How she didn’t help him. He’d died to save her — sure he was _technically_ still alive, but, functionally, he was gone. And it was her fault. She’d gone off alone and her friends had to rescue her, and now one was braindead and the other (according to online police reports) was in and out of jail. And then, when it counted, she just hid and let Kyle get taken away.

As she thought about those few minutes when she chose to stay hidden instead of doing something, _anything_ to save Kyle, she felt a fiery shame take over. She felt worthless — worse than worthless — like she had no right to live and pretending otherwise was fucked. 

“Remember,” she vaguely heard Suzanne say. “Find that shame in your body.” 

Kimber refocused: She noticed that her entire body was tense and her breathing was shallow and fast. She felt pain in her jaw, neck, and shoulders and her stomach roiled. She thought she might throw up. It felt hard to breathe and she just wanted to do _something_ to break the tension. She wanted to stomp some deputies or to at least throw a chair.

“Okay,” Suzanne interrupted Kimber’s violent musings. “Open your eyes.” Kimber opened her eyes and blinked hard, like the overhead light was another assault. She looked around the room and noticed most of the circle looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “Would anyone like to share their experience?”

When no one spoke up, Indigo shifted in her seat. “I’ll share.” She took a deep breath before she continued. “I thought about the first time I was raped. I came home from school and my mom’s boyfriend was there. He was usually there when I came home, but this time was different. He was drunk, sitting on the couch, eating cookies. He offered me a cookie and I knew I shouldn’t take it — I knew I should just go to my room and do my homework — but I wanted that cookie. I was hungry. And it looked good. But when I went to grab the cookie, he grabbed me instead.” A tear spilled down Indigo’s cheek and she wiped it away silently.

“Thanks for sharing, Indigo,” Suzanne said. “When you think about that experience, when you let yourself feel that shame, what do you feel in your body?”

Indigo sighed. “I feel really tight and tense and I want to fight. I want to punch him in the face and rip out his eyes. I want to shove that cookie up his fucking nose.”

“So the shame makes you feel angry and you want to hurt him? Anything else?”

“Yeah. I’m also pissed at myself. I was fourteen. I should have fucking known better. I should have just walked away. Not gone near him.”

“Okay, that’s your shame talking. How does that feel in your body?”

Indigo’s hands were locked into fists and her jaw was set so tightly that Kimber thought she might break her own teeth. “I feel like my whole body is vibrating and I have this urge to punch myself in the legs, in the face … to rip off my skin with my fingernails and then chew it up and swallow. I want to fucking destroy myself. It makes me feel,” Indigo trembled with rage, “like I should just fucking die and get it over with.”

Indigo’s breathing was labored and tears were flowing freely now, but she didn't move to wipe them away. Kimber understood how she felt. There were nights that she fantasized about burning all the skin off her body — making it so no one would ever want to touch her again. But she’d never done more than hold her hand over a lighter; once she started to feel the burn she stopped. She felt ashamed that she couldn’t hurt herself and also ashamed that she would want to. She felt weak and pathetic and worthless.

“Indigo,” Suzanne was kneeling in front of her now. “This is going to be hard, but I want you to imagine that you aren’t you. I want you to step away from yourself a little bit, emotionally, and I want you to pretend that the you who is hurt is actually your little sister. If your little sister had gone through what you’d gone through…if she were feeling the way you’re feeling…what would you say to her?”

Indigo started to cry harder and, though sobs racked her body, her tension seemed to ease up. Her hands, no longer in fists, rubbed at her arms as if she could hug herself in close. As if being in her body wasn’t enough — she also wanted to be _around_ her body. After a minute or so she calmed down enough to speak.

“I would tell her that what happened wasn’t her fault. That asshole was going to take what he wanted whether she took a cookie or not.” She sniffled. “I would tell her that I love her and that she’s going to get through this — that she’s strong enough to get through this.”

“That’s good, Indigo,” Suzanne said softly. “That’s really good. How are you feeling in your body now?” 

Indigo paused and closed her eyes. “Tired. I just feel tired and sad.”

“And the urge to hurt yourself?”

“Nah,” she said. “I don’t really feel that right now.”

Suzanne smiled at Indigo and patted her knee, then stood and turned to the rest of the group. “Over the next few days, I want you to practice this technique,” she said. “I want you to notice when you start to feel shame or anger or any other strong emotion. Instead of pushing it away, I want you to feel it in your body. Sit with it for a little while and then step away from it. Get a little distance and talk to yourself as if you’re someone you want to protect, like a little sister.”

“What if that doesn’t work?” Ashley interrupted, absentmindedly scratching at her thighs.

“It might not,” Suzanne shrugged. “But I want you to practice it anyway.

“Time’s almost up. Some of you may find it helpful to journal your experiences. There are notebooks on the shelf — help yourself — you’ll have to use a crayon or get pencils from the nurses during free time if you’re on sharps-watch.”

Some of the girls headed over to the notebooks while others filed out. Kimber took a deep breath and headed to the shelf after everyone else had gone. She didn’t have to use it, but maybe it would help. She grabbed a notebook and left the room alone.

Over the next few days, Kimber practiced what Suzanne had taught her. She was too afraid of being found out to write about her experiences in her journal, so she drew instead. She drew pictures of women in cages, of men with grotesque faces holding their cocks in their hands, of chains, of needles. She drew Kyle as best as she could, and Sam, and her mom and dad. She drew the Shiny Gentleman, crusted with her father’s blood, and she drew Cleary with a bullet in his head. Sometimes when she had a nervous, unfocused energy, she just drew circles or cubes or striped the page with line after line. 

And it helped … a little. It helped her express the things she couldn’t say out loud. For fuck’s sake, she couldn’t use her real name let alone tell people her real story. 

But even though she couldn’t be honest about what happened to her or who she was, she could finally be honest about how she was feeling. She started being able to identify her shame and notice when it was happening. She started being able to self-soothe — to talk to herself with compassion and love. She kept talking to the group and Ms. Brennan about her shame. They called it survivor’s guilt, they called it PTSD, they called it lots of technical names that didn’t matter, just like the details of her story didn’t matter. She was heard and seen and not judged.

With one week left in Kimber’s stay, she hugged Indigo goodbye. Indigo was being released.

“If you need anywhere to stay or anything, call me,” Indigo said. “I’m going to my mom’s house and she never cares if people crash there.”

“Thanks,” Kimber smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Indigo said.

“Yeah,” Kimber replied. “I know.”

She smiled sadly as Indigo moved on to hug Ashley. The three had become really close and Kimber was glad to finally have friends again. She thought about her old friend Sam — about the letter she’d sent him before she got locked up — afraid it would be found in her things. She wondered if knowing what her mom told her helped him feel any less alone. She’d kept tabs on him, mostly from arrest reports — he was still using his real name. Maybe after she got out of here — after she got her life back on track — maybe she’d go find him. They had to do something to save those other women. They had to burn Borrasca to the ground.

But she had to be ready first. She had to get her shit together — mentally, physically, emotionally — she had to be prepared. It was going to take some time and way too much work, but she felt hopeful. For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t seem like it was out to get her. Ashley was right — bad shit just happened. There was no rhyme or reason. Just because something horrible had happened to her didn’t mean other horrible things would happen. Sure, they might, but it wasn’t a certainty. There was nothing about _her_ that made her a target.

Ms. Brennan found Kimber a place in a female-only halfway house and she moved there after her release. It was a little like the hospital in that they had group therapy every day and chores they had to do, but they could also come and go as long as they stayed sober and were home before curfew. Kimber found a waitressing job at a nearby diner and she started to save up money for her own place. She didn’t want to end up crashing on Indigo’s couch when she got booted from the halfway house in 3 months. 

Kimber found comfort in the rhythms of the house and in its occupants. Of the twenty-four residents, most of the women were addicts who’d been recently released from rehab or prison. A few, like her, had come from the mental hospital after trying to hurt themselves or others. It wasn’t that Kimber got along with all of them or even that she liked all of them, but she felt a kindred spirit. They were working on their shit, just like she was. Sometimes people slipped up and sometimes people got kicked out but, for the most part, they were trying to get it together — to survive in a world that didn’t give a fuck about them. Kimber understood and felt understood. 

When she wasn’t working, Kimber volunteered at a local rape crisis center. It felt good to be busy and even better to feel useful — to help people who’d been assaulted. On a few nights she’d gotten permission to leave the halfway house after curfew to go down to the hospital and advocate for someone who’d survived an attack. Kimber didn’t always share her story, but she always let the victims (usually women and teenage girls) know that she’d been there before. That they weren’t alone.

She took a special pleasure in telling off cops who were too insensitive, too brusque, too aggressive. She didn’t back down when they stepped up to her, demanding that the victims tell them everything. She stood her ground and told them it was their choice to talk or not — it was their choice to press charges or not — and nothing the cops said was going to change that. When the cops (usually men) faltered and backed down, she couldn’t help but imagine that it was Griggs, Ramirez, or Cleary nodding their heads, stepping back, and giving her space.

Fuck, she would love to stare one of those assholes down and come out on top.

While most of the money she earned was squirreled away for rent, she did splurge on a Mixed Martial Arts class. After a few weeks, she made a deal with the owners to clean the studio after class so she could start attending for free. 

Punching people in the face made her feel powerful, though she wasn’t so sure _that_ was a good thing. But she felt closer and closer to being ready to find Sam. Together, they’d make that whole town pay. 

Her revenge fantasies were vivid and often included castration. She was letting go of her shame, but she held on to her anger. She was going to use that anger as motivation — she was going to make _them_ choke on it. 

She just needed a little more time — just a little more time — and then she’d be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope I gave Kimber some of the healing work she deserves. Fuck that whole town.

**Author's Note:**

> National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673
> 
> RAINN: 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)


End file.
